Were I in the very depths of an Hieronymous Bosch inspired hell, Ann Widdicombe, would never, brighten up my Saturday nights.
Were I right up Everest, in the nude and on roller skates, the same applies.
Were I immersed in a vat of vomit infinitely deep, Ann Widdlecombe would not, brighten up my Saturday nights.
Should aliens visit me at night, to harvest my private bits, Ann would not, brighten up my Saturday nights.
The woman makes hari-kiri seem like an interesting hobby.
Were I right up Everest, in the nude and on roller skates, the same applies.
Were I immersed in a vat of vomit infinitely deep, Ann Widdlecombe would not, brighten up my Saturday nights.
Should aliens visit me at night, to harvest my private bits, Ann would not, brighten up my Saturday nights.
The woman makes hari-kiri seem like an interesting hobby.




Or my morning at least.

